Snowdon by Anne de Courcy

On May 6 1960, Antony Armstrong-Jones, known as Tony, stood on the balcony of Buckingham Palace and waved to the cheering crowd. He was at the peak of his powers and yet there was only one thought on his mind. Why had he married the Queen's dwarfish sister when he could have had the fabled society beauty and sometime Daily Mail feature writer, Anne de Courcy?

There was nothing in Tony's upbringing to indicate the extraordinary and unselfish life that he himself would lead. His parents, both commoners, divorced when he was five and it was only Tony's resilience and talent that carried him through the hardship of his early years at Eton. "Tony was a spiffing chap," says his old school friend, Freddy Cholmondely-Bowles-Binkerton. "He always made us laugh in Latin lessons."

Tragedy almost struck when Tony was diagnosed with polio when he was 16. Without his strength of will and exquisite good looks, he might have succumbed to the disease, yet Tony pulled through and vowed to dedicate his life to helping the handicapped.

Tony decided to become a professional photographer and with no help at all from his favourite uncle, the celebrated designer Oliver Messel, or his extensive network of upper-class dilettantes, he soon made a name for himself as the most pre-eminent artist of the London season. He was also wonderfully tolerant in his attitudes. When the Kabaka of Buganda booked a sitting he told his assistant, a cheerful cockney, that although the Kabaka was black, he was royal and therefore should be allowed to use the toilet.

Tony moved in a fast set in the 50s, and his animal magnetism made him irresistible to both sexes. I wouldn't want to be so vulgar as to say categorically that he might have been a homosexualist but I'm happy to infer that his relationship with the gloriously effete Jeremy Fry might have strayed beyond the bounds of normal aristocratic platonic idealism. And if it did, it was far removed from the vile buggery of the lower orders.

Women also threw themselves at Tony's perfectly chiselled body, and his sense of noblesse oblige led him into a lifelong string of affairs, one of which continues to this day. In order not to cause any distress to the living, I have chosen not to reveal this woman's name, though once she has croaked I will be happy to expose her in the Mail.

Princess Margaret was overwhelmed by Tony's physicality. "I'd have shagged him a great deal sooner," she once joked over a pint of gin and 60 Gauloises, "if I hadn't thought he was queer". They became the golden couple of the jeunesse dorée de leurs jours and no social gathering was complete without Ken Tynan or Peter Sellers fawning at their feet.

Tony's talents were etched deep into the global memory with his timeless handling of the Investiture of the Prince of Wales at Caernarfon Castle. Possessed of such gifts, Tony was forced into more affairs with some of the world's most beautiful women. Margaret had no such excuse for her squalid cavortings with Robin and Roddy, and Tony was deeply hurt by her betrayal. "I've only ever wanted what's right for my children and the Queen," he said when the separation was announced.

Enduring the pain of the title forced on him, Tony sought solace in his second wife Lucy and any other woman lucky enough to meet him. Sadly, Lucy failed to understand how Tony's artistic genius and tireless work for the handicapped excused his affairs, and the couple separated. Melanie Cable-Alexander, a journalist half his age, tried to trap his restless creativity by getting pregnant. "I'm extremely proud to be Jasper's father," he said through gritted teeth, after being forced into a DNA test. Another DNA test revealed that Tony had also fathered a daughter with his best friend's wife more than 40 years before.

Yet, despite these trifling annoyances, Tony remains the gentlest, most handsome and greatest of living Englishmen. And as he moves serenely towards his 80s, he continues to shag anything that moves. Except me. Sadly.